


if my love could keep you alive;

by laskaris



Series: would it be enough to go by [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Additional characters tagged as they appear, Alternate Universe, Au Ra Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Canon-Typical Racism, F/M, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, M/M, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Multi, Multiple Warriors of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Platonic Soulmates, Specific Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), eventual polyamory, platonic codependency
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:41:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21553237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laskaris/pseuds/laskaris
Summary: would it be enough to go by/if my love could keep you aliveThya'a Lihzeh and Sarangerel Dazkar have long shared the burden and the struggles of the Warrior of Light - and they expect that traveling to the First will be more of the same, as they fight to save two worlds.There's a lot of things they don't expect. Love, longing,  and the culmination of one man's century-long plan to save them are at the top of the list.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Series: would it be enough to go by [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1548076
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	if my love could keep you alive;

Sarangerel tugs her cloak around herself even more tightly, trying to ward away the ever-present chill of Mor Dhona as she picks her way past the Eight Sentinels, down a path her feet remember more than her head did. Thya'a comes here far more often than she did, after all, every time the two of them find themselves back at the Rising Stones. She'd followed him, once, years ago, when she'd grown tired of not understanding why he kept doing this, why he kept coming here to talk to a boy who couldn't even hear him. Probably. Hopefully? She has no idea what tales Thya'a's tongue has spun across the years since they'd parted, what stories he'd kept telling to a closed door and a sleeping boy about all they'd stumbled into along the way while somehow saving the world yet again. Maybe he'd left the stupid shit out.

But she hadn't understood, then, even following him at a distance _(because she'd refused to go along, when Thya'a had invited her the first time, and didn't want to admit she was curious)_. It made her feel better, for a little while, to come up to the door after Thya'a had gone, to yell obscenities at a door that wouldn't open and call G'raha an idiot for half a bell, but nothing more than the release of tension. She hadn't understood why Thya'a kept coming, why he made this into a ritual when he could be doing almost absolutely anything else. Hadn't understood until the Vault and Azys Lla and a lonely grave overlooking Ishgard, until the first time they'd gone there alone and she'd screamed and beat Thya'a's shoulder blue and bruised while he just held her and both of them having forgotten how to cry. This silence, these places, were the closest they could ever come to being near their lost loved ones again.

So she sits, for a little while, rests her greatsword across her knees and thinks of simpler times, before loss and sorrow and death. Of who they had been, back then, of mornings when she'd rested her head in G'raha's lap while he and Thya'a were curled up casually reading the same book _(after they'd stolen the same books back and forth from each other enough times that it was just stupid)_ and demanded that they explain whatever they were reading to her in simple terms, of stupid arguments over some incredibly picky point of translation and the time she'd gotten sick of it, grabbed them both, and thrown them like potato sacks over her shoulders until they got the fuck over it, of songs and laughter and goodnatured competitiveness, the feel of a bowstring beneath her fingers and the flicker of flame from Thya'a's staff, afternoons in the sun and mornings digging and not having to think about geopolitics or be more than they were. When she and Thya'a didn't have to carry the weight and hopes of an entire world on their shoulders.

It was fucking nice, wasn't it, she thinks, and opens her eyes. She doesn't even entirely remember, anymore, how she could have ever been that carefree girl. The silence hangs heavy and she glances to her left without thinking about it, only to find the space empty. It's unsettling, not having Thya'a at her side, it's only been a handful of times they've been parted since they started traveling together, but she can feel his contentment, a low hum, through their shared soul crystal. Visiting his mother and youngest sisters, before...whatever the fuck they were about to do next, with that fucking mysterious voice from elsewhere, and while she could have gone along, she wanted to give him that time, when fair was fair and he'd done the same the last time they were at the Steppe. Gone off while she'd visited her older brother, vibrating with low anxiety even as she basked in Enkh's serenity and warmth, briefly, too briefly, only the youngest daughter of her family, cherished and beloved, and not one of the two Warriors of Light.

_(she's already counting coins, in her head, to cover Thya'a's share of traveling expenses. She knows him and knows he'd have handed his purse to his mother without a second thought, when they'll be gone for fuck knows how long)_

The weight has already settled back into place, like a second skin, as she stands. Takes a moment to look back.

"You idiot." she says, clearly, resting her hand on the door. Cool crystal beneath her fingertips, hasn't changed in five years, doesn't expect it to change even in five hundred or five thousand or even after the world itself falls to dust. "You absolute fucking idiot."

No more words need to be said - not when Thya'a would likely come by himself, after he returned from Quarrymill - and after a moment, she turns on her heel and walks back the way she came, leaving the silent Crystal Tower behind.

~~~

By the time Sarangerel makes her way back to the Rising Stones, the wind has picked up, and she is half-huddled into her cloak and cursing, wishing she had worn her heavier one. Steppe winters were often bitterly cold- and she can handle those even after her years away -but Mor Dhona has its own cold that she's never managed to get used to, no matter how much she’s outside in it. It sinks into the bones in an entirely different way then the winters at home did, and she almost, almost envies Thya'a his skill at black magic. He's never cold, no matter how bitter and chill winter falls. _Cheater._ Absolute _cheater_ , never cold in winter or hot in summer. It makes him a good hot-water bottle, though, and she always casually steals the blankets and puts her cold feet on him and laughs as he rolls his eyes in protest.

The quiet and stillness as she pushes open the door is still somehow unexpected, even as the silence long ago seeped into her bones. Even though she knows better, part of her still expects noise and bustle, the loudness of having people always around. But it hasn’t been this way in years, not since the Crystal Braves’ betrayal: the Scions had never quite...come back together, not the way they had been when she and Thya’a had first arrived, even before...recent events. Ghosts and memories hang heavy here, too, much like everywhere they go nowadays, it seems.

Thya'a's cane, as well as his sandals, occupy their usual space near the entranceway, but he himself is nowhere in sight, though the familiar, comforting scent of dzo stew fills the air. Saran pauses for a moment, breathes in the rich scent of meat and home, the spices, the...everything, and an unasked-for tide of homesickness, a longing for a home that will truly never be home again rises in her before she manages to push it back. The spices aren't quite in the same proportion as she remembers- close, but not quite. Thya’a had learned to cook the familiar recipes from her once-home from her brother, she’s certain _(despite never asking)_ and she breathes in that almost-familiarity, but he clearly has his own variation on whatever he was taught. It's that difference, in the end, which pushes her out of her homesick reverie. He's definitely here, but the question is - _where_?

Tataru is...somewhere, likely making arrangements for them to be brought to the dig tomorrow, or else Saran would just ask her where her errant partner-in-world-saving-and-assorted-crime is. Well, that's fine: she'd been one of the best huntresses among the Dazkar before she'd left to become an adventurer, inadvertently putting her on a path of god-slaying and world-saving, and one (1) white mage was definitely easy enough to track down. There were only a few places in the Rising Stones that Thya'a was likely to be, after all, and she can feel the muted thread of his emotions through their shared soulstone. The question was, of course, where should she check first?

After a moment, she turns on her heel and walks briskly towards the infirmary. Before she even gets to the door, she can hear the clear, soft sound of Thya'a's voice, regular and rhythmic. Reading something aloud, she's certain, though she can't make out what it is until she's swung the door open _(making enough noise in the process to let him know that she's here)_ and sees him sitting by Urianger's bedside, reading from a thick book. At least she can hear what he's reading, though she still can't really make heads or tails of it: it's one of the dusty old books that Urianger likes, aetheric theory something or other, and she doesn't have the background in magical theory that Thya'a does. Saran's told herself for years, since she's come to Eorzea, that maybe she should work on that, a little bit, but despite finding herself surrounded by scholars and mages aplenty since she's arrived, hasn't really bothered. She appreciates plenty of other books, just...not those.

"I thought the point was to try to wake them up," she says. "Not put them even deeper to sleep."

Thya'a glances up from the book as he closes it with a firm snap, setting aside his magnifying lens. "Just because it puts _you_ to sleep..." he replies, tartly. "Doesn't mean the effect's universal. I was hoping to lure back Urianger."

The fact that Thya'a has spent what little time he could spare since each of the Scions had fallen into unwaking sleep reading to them, on what occasions they'd managed to come back to the Rising Stones with soon-to-be-war and then war on their hands, hangs unspoken between them. He'd asked her to help him pick out a book to read for each of them - despite the fact that it would have been faster for him to do it on his own - and she'd done her best, squinting at the Eorzean letters as best as she could and only occasionally leaning on the Echo to fill in the gaps when she was too slow.

"Good bait for a trap," she says, and plucks the closed book from his hands. "Too bad it's the wrong kind of trap."

"What do you suggest to do now, o mighty huntress?" Thya'a rubs his left eye with the back of his hand.

"Wait." Saran replies, and sets the book down on a nearby table. "For the right moment."

Thya'a sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. A long-familiar gesture though he no longer wears glasses. "And how will we know when it is the right moment?" 

"That," Saran says, "Is a good question."

"If this is for anything less than an _apocalypse_ ," Thya'a mutters, flopping in his chair in a loose pile of white skirts, long white hair, and long lean limbs, "I am drop-kicking that mysterious voice."

Despite herself, Saran barks out a laugh. "Be careful what you ask for."

"I _am_ careful," Thya'a grumbles, one of his ears flattening irritably, and Saran fixes him with a disbelieving look. It's been only a day or two since the _last_ reckless thing he'd done and while she can't _blame_ him given the circumstances, at least his greatsword being shattered would keep him from a repeat performance, even if only for a little while. It's not as though they have the time to get him a new one forged before they have to go. "...most of the time?" her stare doesn't waver. _Really, Thya'a?_ "... _some_ of the time?" he amends himself, a moment later.

"Better." she says, and changes the subject as she tugs him up out of the chair. There is naught more that they can do here, they've already long-since tried everything, but if she would let him, Thya'a would sit there all night. "You cooked?"

"Yes," Thya'a stretches as he follows Saran's prodding. Between the two of them, he was - of course- the better cook, though he didn't often get the chance to flex his ability. But he would make a terrible yurt-husband, as she'd had to inform more than one of her cousins sighing after her Miqo'te traveling partner, between his general eccentric-at-best temperament and only being attracted to men. "I thought it would be nice. Especially since who even knows if I'll be able to cook...where we're going."

“You never know.” Saran shrugs. " _We_ certainly don't know until we get there. At any rate, _I'm_ hungry. Did you eat yet?"

"I ate lunch with Mother." Thya'a says. "To make certain she would eat. But it's been a few bells since then."

Saran pokes him, after a moment. "Then let's eat supper." 

"Fine, fine." he says. "Lead the way." 

~~~

"How was your visit home?" Saran asks, around a mouthful of stew, careful to chew. Gods, it's delicious, he's outdone himself entirely - which bespeaks the mood he's in, even before Thya'a sighs irritably, ears pressing against his head, tail lashing agitatedly. "...that bad, huh?" 

"Remember how I paid to have someone come and fix the roof on Mother's house, after the last storm?" he says, tapping his fingers on the table. Of course she remembers - Thya'a had counted coins anxiously for weeks, taking extra jobs whenever he could. "Bastard would have cut corners if I hadn't been there at just the right time." the word 'bastard' is almost strange to hear from his tongue, given how little he curses, but it's very precisely chosen. 

"...so what did you do?" Saran knows what _she_ might have done, were she in Thya'a's shoes

Thya'a shrugs, tapping his spoon against the side of his bowl. "I just walked up to Mother right before he started his work and said 'hello, Mother' right in front of him. He nearly fell off his ladder when he realized just _who_ her son was." 

He's _so_ good at this, when he's in the right mood: it's why she makes him do all the diplomacy between the two of them. It's a trick Saran's never had to learn, the women of her tribe were blunt and bold, but she's always liked watching the precise, passive-aggression of the young Dazkar men. He'd get along well among her tribe, she's sure. Much better than he gets along in the Black Shroud. Sometimes, she thinks, it might be nice to go home to stay, to take Thya'a with her and introduce him to some nice young man not her brother, but it's always a half-formed thought, at best. 

"So that takes care of the roof. What's going to happen while we're gone? Just in case she needs anything else?" Saran asks, and Thya'a spreads his fingers out on the table. 

"Mother doesn't want to 'cause trouble', so she won't throw my name around even though I've told her to do it." he says, irritably. As Saran understands it, it's long been a point of contention between him and his mother. His mother has lived quietly near Quarrymill her whole life, trying not to cause trouble or make a fuss and deal with things as they were, prove herself worthy by exemplary conduct and navigating all the obstacles and bullshit thrown in her way with grace, while Thya'a was increasingly unwilling to deal with things the way they were. "So I told Tahla to do it. Use my name, invoke _our_ fame, as much as possible, whatever it took to get Mother taken care of. We've fought and bled and nearly died for the Eorzean Alliance too many times already, the _least_ that should happen is for my family to be taken care of and not cheated by some racist bastards who hate Keepers. At least we're not Duskwights or we'd be even worse off." 

"How about I round up all of Gridania, _except_ the Keepers and Duskwights," Sarangerel offers, not for the first time, "And berate them. Put the fear of the Gods into them." 

"Keep that in reserve." Thya'a says, waving his empty hand. "I'm just going to _remind_ them of how much I've bled for them." 

...no wonder he doesn't wear anything to cover his blind eye anymore, she realizes after a moment. Not sunglasses, not an eyepatch, nothing. She'd never asked before, just accepted his choice, there. 

"I'll try it your way for now," she shrugs. "But in the meantime, I asked my brother to go to your mother, help her while we're gone. It might take him a bit to get there, but he'll be there. Maybe help your sister learn some conjury, too, while he is." 

Thya'a opens his mouth, and Saran pokes him. "Talk less, eat more. You worked hard on that and if you don't watch out, I'll eat all of it first." 

"Leave some for Krile and Tataru," he reminds her, just after he eats another spoonful. 

"Too slow." she says, just to needle him, and finishes her bowl, gets up to get herself another helping. "Give me your bowl when you're done, I'll do the cleaning." 

"So you're spoiling me," he teases, one slim eyebrow raised, but sets down his empty bowl and spoon on her side of the table with a hollow clatter and stands up. "I'll be back later." he says. "Don't wait up." 

"Are you going to leave the stupid shit out?" Saran asks, knowing where his footsteps inevitably lead him, where hers had led her that morning, and Thya'a shrugs. 

"Maybe," he says, as he turns to go. "Maybe not. It's a mystery. There's a lot of stories to tell, and not a lot of time to tell them in. And a while before we're back to tell more of them." 

Afterwards, Sarangerel washes the dishes and the pot _and_ the spoons and whatever else he'd used while cooking, sticks them somewhere out of the way and hopefully in the right spot, puts away the leftovers for Krile and Tataru in the ice chest and sticks a hastily scrawled note on the front counter for them. Settles down with a book to try to practice her Eorzean reading but can't entirely focus, anxiety thrumming low where she almost isn't consciously aware of it. Puts the book down and instead wanders in search of the training dummy she's set up, lashes out at it with fists and feet for practice, sharp jabs and kicks, until she's exhausted and yawning tiredly. Undresses for bed and crawls into the blankets. 

Thya'a still isn't back, and she closes her eyes and listens for the muted thread of his emotions, thrumming through their shared soul crystal. Distracted and caught up, so she doesn't expect that he will be back for a while. She's almost asleep when a slender, warm body crawls in the bed with her and Saran immediately sticks her cold feet on Thya'a's legs without thinking about it. 

"Must you?" he asks, sighing, but resettles the blankets into the warm nest that he prefers and opens his book. "Good night, Saran." 

"Good night," she says, and closes her eyes, to wait until morning comes. 


End file.
